Editing Wild Cards

There are whispers. Half truths and tall tales. To be honest no man knows where the Cards came from. No mortal man, kennit? All that is agreed upon is one day they started to appear, and the world changed.

To hear it told, there are only fifty four true Guns in the world. Guns with a capital G. Sure you can find the odd shooting iron, crafted by some smith of supreme skill. Maybe even purchase a genuine Smythe, not the mass produced crap, but one the old man made himself. More common a slugthrower, those bastard children of inspiration that many a would be 'slinger claims is a weapon true. The real deal, blessed steel, they are the only ones worthy of being called true Guns. They are the Cards, and they are the weapons of the Gunslingers. To wield a Card is to be blessed and cursed. To carry one is to be a God on Earth, and a demon of the cruelest nature. The stories hint that those who carry the Cards don't truly wield them, but are instead used by them. There are tales of Gunslingers who would thank their murderers for freeing them from the curse in one breath, and bemoan their damned souls in the next.

Many a man will argue on the nature of the Cards. Whether they were the work of one man or many. Some even speculate that ol' scratch himself made them. What no man will argue is their power. Fifty four Guns, thirteen of each Suit and the two Wilds. Deuce to Ace, that's how their power is reckoned. Such thinking is for the jaw waggers and the boilbacks. Any man who has seen a Gunslinger will tell you, the strength of the Gun will only get you so far, the rest is the man who the Card rides.

The Cards are marked with the image of their namesake, usually on the handle. Stories follow those that carry them, right into the grave. A smart gunslinger may make it to old age with a Gun, but none will make it there unscathed. 

Beyond that, there's not much that a fella can say about the Cards. Or rather, there's too much. Scuttlebutt. Gossip. Stories you can never really confirm.

The suits do seem to mean something. They say that a Club can punch through steel, that you never beat a Diamond at the quick-draw, that a Heart can shoot the wings off a fly, and that a Spade can shoot around corners if he really wants to. The Jokers, now them everyone can agree on. The Black Joker, the Dead Man's Gun. No one who carries it ever dies in a gunfight, but they all die soon enough... and the Red Joker, which might as well be a myth. No one can ever remember anything about the fella who carries it. Just the gun. And even that's foggy.

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[[Category:Homebrew Settings]]